


like hares they mistook confidence for capacity

by silkspectred



Series: the slowest runner [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Bottom Tony Stark, Depression, Empathic Bond, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Rituals, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Tony Stark, Referenced Mpreg, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Submission, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkspectred/pseuds/silkspectred
Summary: Steve and Tony’s first time, during which they create their bond.[This is the first story in chronological order]
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: the slowest runner [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1086672
Comments: 42
Kudos: 368
Collections: Tony-involved Omegaverse Fics





	like hares they mistook confidence for capacity

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is set after Age of Ultron but with some minor tweaks to canon. The events depicted here take place before _the slowest runner in all the world_ , so the rest of the series happens after this story. I guess this is readable on its own but some references might be lost.
> 
> There is a random reference to Rogelio De La Vega in this story. If you know, you know.
> 
> Thanks to Tones and Gem for beta.

“Looking a little sloppy there, Avenger.”

Steve’s comment is met with a stunned silence that’s barely noticeable in the deserted gym at... almost 2 in the morning. The criticism is mild and kindly offered, but Tony feels called out by it nonetheless. _Let’s see how you’d fare in the lab_ , he thinks, snappish, and struggles to keep from saying aloud. He hits the heavy bag too hard, and it swirls back at him so suddenly that he has to stop it with his gloved hands.

He exhales, frustrated. Damn, he’s out of practice, and Steve is right. He hasn’t boxed in a long while, preferring weight lifting, which is undeniably more useful for handling the suit. His reflexes are still sharp, his movements still quick and strong, thank you very much, but he knows he’s lost a great deal of elegance in his form over the years, and of course Captain America has to bitch about it. Tony doesn’t even like hitting the bag that much (he’d much rather have a real opponent); it was just the farthest spot from Steve in the gym.

Not that he’s trying to avoid Steve or anything, of course. That would be silly. Their date last week, their first (only?), went well, even though it was Tony who asked Steve out and not the other way around, as tradition commands. But as if that wasn’t enough of a bold move, Tony then decided to be the biggest idiot on the planet and kiss Steve goodbye. Him, a forty- _something_ but still, _obviously_ , extremely handsome Omega, taking up the incredibly smart initiative to kiss an Alpha that grew up pre-World War II and is regarded as the ultimate moral paradigm by large parts of the Western world. Fantastic idea, Tony. Congrats.

Thankfully, Steve hadn’t been rude about it or showed any of the contempt he must have naturally felt. He hadn’t acted scandalized either. Not that he’s a bigot, actually, from what Tony has seen at least, but… oh, hell. He was even nice enough to kiss Tony back, for fuck’s sake. Tony went up on his tiptoes, turned his face just so, hesitated for a moment, and then Steve kissed him, meeting him halfway, too kind to force Tony through the awkwardness of refusing him or the annoyance of putting him back in his place. But no matter how inexplicably good Steve’s reaction was, the mess had been made and there was no turning back. Tony remembers saying goodbye, even calling Steve _sunshine_ as though he was the Alpha instead of Steve, but Steve answered, patient and permissive while some type of anger colored his face in red hues.

It’s Tony’s fault, really. None of it is on Steve.

What was he even thinking? God, what the fuck was he thinking. 

Anyway, seriously, it’s not that he’s avoiding Steve, it’s just that he’s… yep, totally avoiding Steve. So, yeah, he has to admit that deciding not to turn on his heels and go back to bed when he saw that the only other person in the gym was, in fact, Steve, has to be considered the latest immensely bad idea in a fairly long string of immensely bad ideas.

Tony steadies the bag and lets his forehead touch the leather for a moment. He feels sweaty and tired, clumsy in his gloves, and he really should have worn something that was closer to the definition of sweatpants than that of pajama bottoms. He looks down at his naked feet, at his chest, at the space where the light of the arc reactor used to shine through all his t-shirts. _Black Sabbath_ , he reads from upside down.

He waits until the last possible moment to lift his head and look at Steve.

Steve, who is now standing next to the heavy bag, his white cotton shirt wet with the water he splashed on himself, his nipples visible through the fabric, his face red with the exertion of bench-pressing the equivalent weight of a bus or whatever, sweat dampening his hair, freckles visible on his arms…

And then, his scent. Oh, his scent is…

God, if only Tony hadn’t acted like a dumb, insolent, recusant Omega who doesn’t know how to behave on a first date. But he did, and now he can say goodbye to all his timid hopes of a bite on his shoulder, of a bond in his mind. Of a relationship, finally, at forty- _something_ years old. Which was stupid enough to begin with, if he’s being honest. Why would Steve even want him? After all their conflict? After Ultron, goddammit. This is Steve Rogers we’re talking about. Captain fucking America. Tony’s already lucky if an Alpha like Steve is okay with being in the same room as an Omega like him, or that he looked at him twice, or even spoke to him. If he’s honest, it’s a miracle that Steve is willing to work with someone like Tony at all. Truly a testament to the goodness of his heart. So why did he say yes when Tony asked him out? It makes no sense. He could have anyone, seriously, _anyone_ , so why pick an old, used Om— 

_Oh_.

Oh, of course. It’s kinda obvious now that he thinks of it.

Steve must know about Tony’s past, must have read about it on one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files or maybe even on that stupid unauthorized biography that Clint won’t stop bringing up as a joke. He must know about Tony’s youth spent welcoming way too many people between his legs, people he sure wasn’t bonded with, and in many cases wouldn’t want to be, ever. All those rich and spoiled Alphas who had an arranged marriage with a virgin Omega they had never met a few years ahead of them, all those sleazy scumbags in the weapon business who were used to cutting deals with Omegas only in a very specific way… But even though the days since Tony felt ashamed of his sexual history are long gone—you can get too old for that too, apparently—now he feels bad about it anew, because Steve knows about it, and he must have thought… after Tony’s stupid flirting, he must have thought… _hey, what’s the harm, right?_ He’d get to blow off some steam with someone he can trust not to sell the story to a tabloid the next day while also not feeling pressured to commit to a bond while he still struggles with the effects of seventy years spent in the ice. Some awkwardness for a few weeks during Avengers business must seem to him like a small price to pay for it, because well, he’s the Alpha. He doesn’t have to care about _any_ consequences.

Of course.

Tony pretends that he’s not hurt by this realization, because it makes sense. Honestly, it just does.

And what’s one more partner for Tony, in the grand scheme of things, after all? He’s not saving himself up for anyone; that train left the station a _long_ time ago. Still, agreeing to go out on a date feels a bit too disingenuous on Steve’s part now. The pantomime was useless; all Steve had to do was say no and then ask for what he really wanted, so they’d be on the same page since the beginning. Tony would’ve said yes.

Steve gifts him with an open, boyish smile.

“Be lighter on your feet, sweetheart.”

Well, the show must go on and all that, apparently. But really, the word, _sweetheart_ , the way it seems to echo in the empty gym at night, how sincere it sounds despite everything—it gives a twinge to Tony’s chest that forces him to take his eyes off of Steve’s. Sometimes, when this happens, Tony feels as though there’s not enough skin to cover the hole above his heart. He fears the scars are stretching at the seams, that the skin grafts are melting off of him. He fears that the same pain he felt waking up in the cave is waiting for him in his near future, instead of being just a thing of the past.

“Come on. Eyes up,” Steve says, holding the bag for Tony. “Remember, core strength.”

Ah, fuck it. Might as well get a good work-out session out of it, right? 

Tony jumps a few times on his spot, discharging his nervous energy to the padded floor. He breathes out through his mouth, lowers his head, concentrates on Steve’s voice while he starts hitting the bag.

“Don’t telegraph your shots… Lose that tell in your neck…”

“That’s good, keep that up.”

“Switch up the levels… Create a wider angle, Tony, don’t be shy with it…”

“That’s it. That’s perfect.”

“Give me sixty seconds now, fast as you can.”

“Breathe.”

“Now I wanna see some powerful shots, one-two, one-two… Let’s take this from the top now, throw some kicks in between.”

“Okay, rest.”

Tony takes a step back from the bag and from Steve, who keeps looking at him with the most avid eyes. Tony wants to run away from that gaze—he’s sweaty, flushed, mad at his own gullibility, which isn’t something he thought affected him, but he has to come to terms with the fact that apparently, yes, it does. He’s just the pathetic Omega his father always accused him of being, ready to fall at any Alpha’s feet after sniffing some pheromones. Weak and gagging for it, always.

He takes off his gloves, pulling at the strap of the first one with his teeth, Steve following his every move. He lets the gloves fall to the floor, scratches at his face with his fingers. His hands are still wrapped, and he should take care of that. Probably. Soon. He should. He should tell Steve he wants to stop. Enough training for the day. Night. Whatever.

He feels sticky. He feels overheated and raw, his skin scratched and caressed all over by Steve’s voice, ever so terrifying and gentle, ever so careful not to sound threatening or forceful, not to transform instructions into orders, but too often skirting just barely away from that threshold, the unmated Alpha in him always roaring softly, and gritting his teeth under the surface of Steve’s well-measured and pleasant exterior personality. It’s a calm and reassuring sound, a storm rumbling at the edges of Tony’s horizon, and it leads him to a place where he feels safe and alert, where he can let everything else fall away and just be one with his movements, with his body, his sweat, his skin, and Steve’s voice at the root of it all, Tony’s loneliness stripping it of all its kinder masks to leave only the nude orders, the Alpha orders he so craves underneath the pretense and the armors, _his_ Alpha’s orders (if only, if only), and he uses them to fill the heavy negative space at the center of his mind, that black hole of desperation and rejection that Steve, beautiful and tender with his pink cheeks and his broad chest, will never, ever, choose to fill up himself, leaving Tony condemned to the compound growth of his own lovesickness.

Steve inhales, and he doesn’t let the air out for a long moment.

“I had fun the other night,” he says then, quietly, tone neutral, and maybe just to fill the silence that Tony was ignoring for the sake of his meaningless introspection. Steve smiles, but Tony can see it tastes regretful, even bitter. “Now you seem to be slipping away from me. If I did something that offended you or—”

“No. It’s fine. Just tired, you know? Long hours staring at screens and everything.” Steve’s expression turns hurt at the obvious lie, and Tony can’t deal with it anymore. He needs to cut this short. He lifts a hand in the direction of the heavy bag. “Thank you for—”

“You’ve got beautiful arms, you know that?”

Tony straightens his shoulders, lets his arms fall to his sides, self-conscious about them even more than usual now. He squints at Steve, a gesture meant to convey inquiry and impatience in equal amounts. If this is some type of messed-up courting then Steve can save it.

But Steve touches Tony’s forearm, then travels up—big fingertips, slightly tapping at the skin, sliding over it in a whisper—to burrow his hand underneath Tony’s sleeve, grabbing at his bicep, at his deltoid, stretching the cotton until it might rip. Steve’s other hand is at the hem of the t-shirt a moment later, lifting it, and in a brief blur Tony’s half-naked, stumbling a little when he almost loses his balance on the padded floor.

Steve takes off his own t-shirt and caresses Tony’s arms again, from the elbow up to the neck, lingering on his shoulders. He smiles, pure now, and kneels in front of Tony, slow as if they’ve got all the time in the world to dedicate to these kinds of little games. He touches Tony’s stomach and lures a gasp out of him, the sound rippling against the walls of the empty gym, of the night. Steve frames Tony’s hips with his hands, stares at someplace between Tony’s navel and his dick, hard and visible through his pants. He should’ve worn something thicker, he should’ve stayed in his room. He should’ve kept watching Steve from afar knowing that he wasn’t an Alpha to be trifled with.

Steve mouths at Tony’s cock through the fabric, brushing his lips against it as Tony tries to commit the sensation to memory as best he can, cataloging it for future use, before it hits him, how crazy it is for Steve to be doing this to him instead of forcing Tony to his knees and ordering him to part his lips, even though Steve never gave any indication of being the type of Alpha that would do or like that sort of thing, that would revel in coerced submission. 

“Do you want me, Tony?”

Tony takes a moment to grasp what Steve is truly asking because he can hardly believe that anyone would show him so much regard—no one ever has, really. Alphas _take_ , they don’t ask. But Steve sounds uncertain, as though Tony’s rejection is a concrete possibility.

Tony flinches back. He can’t help it.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, and yelps when the entire world tilts and his back hits the padded floor, Steve stretching on top of him and dipping his head in for a kiss.

Steve’s weight on him. 

Steve’s scent, everywhere. 

The feel of Steve’s hand in his hair.

Steve’s tongue licking his, their slightly different body temperatures.

One of Steve’s hands slips between Tony’s thighs. He presses his fingers between Tony’s cheeks, against his hole, and only now Tony feels how wet the fabric of his pants is, and he can’t keep his humiliation from percolating through his pores.

Steve smells it; it’s so sudden and sour.

“Shh, hey.” The kindest, kindest voice. “You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d got, huh? I could smell it since the first drop, all the way from there.”

Tony closes his eyes for a moment.

“No need to be ashamed. Come on, it’s just me. Please.”

Tony can’t think of anything to say, so he squirms under Steve’s touch and his back arches with so much arousal, so much pent-up energy, the tightest desperation—he doesn’t know where to put it, what to do with himself. He’d touch Steve if his fingers weren’t still wrapped, but they are, and they feel numb and clumsy, and all his desires go nowhere.

“Makes me crazy, Tony, y’know that? Your scent, your voice… These past few days I’ve barely seen you, thought I was losin’ my mind. Thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

Oh, God, why is he saying these— 

“No,” Tony replies, and he doesn’t miss the way Steve stills, completely, immediately, for as long as Tony doesn’t speak. “I want you, I just… nevermind, it hardly matters now,” he finishes, because this isn’t the time to interrupt or explain.

“That’s just as well,” Steve pants against his lips, interspersing each word with a kiss. “God, Tony, I… I’ve never been this hard in my life,” he says, and then blushes since the sentence wasn’t meant to be said out loud. But Tony can feel it, Steve’s erection, he can feel it against his groin, the inside of his thigh.

“Yeah, come on.”

“You sure?”

“Come on,” Tony urges, and Steve rips the back of Tony’s pants with his fingers, pulls at the tear to make it larger.

Tony is so stunned he can’t even find a way to get mad at him, not when Steve shifts Tony’s body so he can part his cheek to look at his ass, to caress it with the flat of his hand and play with the coarse hair there. There’s an obscene sound when Steve spits on Tony’s hole, when he nudges at it with his fingers, pushing his saliva in and mixing it with Tony’s slick.

There’s only one thing that can happen next, and Tony watches as Steve pushes his own waistband down, frees his own cock—which is… ah, fuck, it’s huge—and pushes inside him.

Tony groans and swallows and tightens his jaw instead of relaxing, instead of easing Steve’s way in. All he wants to do is scream.

Something pulses horribly in his head, the empty space preparing itself to welcome a bond that Tony knows will never arrive. It’s worse than other times, it’s worse than any other time because this time Tony was really hoping… He was… No, no. He refuses to acknowledge the sharp pain it gives him, and feeds on it at the same time, lets this want spill out of him in a river of grief until he can turn his attention to something else.

Steve inside him feels insanely good, slotted in with a single thrust, Tony perfectly open and wet for him, as if they were made for each other. It’s such a stupid thought that Tony twitches to dispel the embarrassment it causes him, then clenches around Steve to encourage him to move. But Steve, instead, Steve keeps stills for a long minute after bottoming out, eyes closed and mouth agape. A deep shudder runs through him, and he opens his eyes, looking at Tony now with incredible softness, the eyes of someone who just woke up after a long rest. “I’ve been dreaming of this since I first met you,” he whispers, his voice as deep as it can be, and Tony feels it at the bottom of his spine. “You’d make me so mad sometimes, but I couldn’t help but like you. I’m powerless before you, Tony, hopeless. I look at you and I come undone.”

Tony can’t process or rationalize this at the moment, but Steve can’t mean what he seems to be meaning, not really, but it’s fine, who cares, whatever floats his boat. He’s an old-fashioned guy, maybe he likes this type of talk in bed. Tony can just roll with it.

“Could you keep your arms up? Like this,” Steve asks, and he sounds like he’s in a dream. Tony throws his arms past his head and Steve stretches his neck to let kisses cascade on one of Tony’s triceps, to scatter little bites on the softer skin there, and Tony wishes he could have those teeth someplace else, that he could feel them sink into his shoulder and bear that brief pain in exchange for—

For what, he can’t even imagine. He’s sure the songs, the movies, centuries of poetry don’t really do it justice. What it must feel like, to be one with someone else. To have that one sure thing, for the rest of your life.

And Tony is nowhere near finding out, that’s for sure. 

It’s… it’s fine.

Steve starts moving on top of him, rigid and deliberate at first, and Tony almost asks him, _Are you in pain?_ but thinks better of it at the last moment. He wonders if things in his life would be better if he asked these kinds of questions. Especially to Steve.

He stares at Steve’s lips.

“Would you kiss me?” he asks, because it’s the last chance he has. Steve’s expression falters a little, but he bends his head and kisses him slowly, stopping his thrusts to dedicate himself to it fully, with no other distractions. He lingers with his lips on Tony’s and resumes fucking into him at a languorous pace, hips rolling between Tony’s open thighs, stomach pressing down on Tony’s hard dick, now free through the tatters of his pants.

Feeling Steve this close, feeling him inside makes Tony’s head dizzy. It’s standing on the edge of a parapet and watching the tip of his shoe go over it a little, only void underneath it, his tie flapping on his chest because of the wind. Steve is the vertigo at the door of his stomach, the itch at the back of Tony’s neck that says, _Jump_.

Steve resumes pushing into him with the same initial rhythm, pretending he’s starting just now from the beginning, as if he’s scared that if he goes too fast Tony might evaporate. It keeps going on like that for a while, Steve never picking up the pace, pure sweetness coming off of him in waves—it’s like being fucked by cotton candy, and Tony isn’t sure why he even expected anything else. Many clues point to Steve being a vanilla kind of Alpha, now that Tony thinks about it.

But it’s fine. If this is what Steve likes, then fine. Tony isn’t about to protest or ask for something different: if he does, the spell might break, Steve might come back to his senses and ask himself what the fuck is he doing with someone like Tony—an old and used Omega, notoriously damaged goods.

Tony feels like an animal, not moving, not even breathing lest a predator senses his presence and attacks, but he can’t fuck this up. He’ll take what Steve gives. It’s already more than Tony could ever deserve. Even if he flew a hundred nukes into just as many wormholes in the sky, he’d never be worthy of Steve.

“Is there something wrong?” Steve asks, honey voice leaking all over Tony.

“No, I just…” Oh, to hell with it. It’s the only chance he gets at being fucked by Steve Rogers, and he’s not going to waste it. Might as well try to get a good pounding. If he asks nicely, Steve will probably be kind enough to go along with it, he’s been nothing but patient with Tony’s nonsense so far. “It’s fine. I just didn’t expect you to be so—”

“So?”

“I don’t know. Sweet.”

“You don’t want me to be sweet.”

“No. Yes! I mean—”

“What would you like me to be?”

_In love with me._

Tony looks at the hollow of Steve’s throat. “Rougher, maybe. Not unkind, just—”

Tony is interrupted by Steve’s tongue plunging into his mouth, by Steve’s body pressing him into the padded floor. Steve trembles just before he fucks into Tony so hard that it plays with painful, and when he’s able to speak again Tony moans, loud, “Yeah. Yeah, just like that,” because Steve’s pace is still slow but that’s okay now, it’s okay when it takes entire seconds for Tony to recover from each thrust. Steve sits up and kneels, taking Tony’s hips and lifting them onto his lap to change the angle.

“Fuck—”

“Better?”

“Yeah—”

“I like this too. More than—”

“Then why did you—”

“You asked me to kiss you in that way and I—”

“But—”

“It’s… God, Tony, the way you feel around me is…” Steve closes his eyes, lost and falling into something that can’t be Tony. “You’ve no idea how much I need you… How much I—” Steve trails off when he becomes distracted by something only he can see across the skin of Tony’s chest. He stares at it, rapt, moves a hand to touch the scarred area but he stops at the last moment. He looks at Tony and must read consent on his face, because Tony doesn’t say anything, but he wants Steve to touch him, and Steve touches him. Still, Tony gasps when Steve’s fingertips land on him, the tender, insensitive skin there made all the more receptive by Tony’s imagination—what Steve feels like, on him, inside him, what he’d feel like in his head.

Steve slams into him hard but faster, finally, thankfully, and Tony’s insides sing with it, and he wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to come. The rush it gives him, the pleasure, the fact that it’s Steve, the love he feels for him, good even if unrequited. Electricity crackles within him, below his navel, through his spine, the countdown on a bomb.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, and Steve growls and takes Tony’s dick in his hand, stroking it a few times, tight, and just a moment before reaching the edge Tony moves his hand to still Steve’s, he presses his open palm—the wrapped hand, the numb fingers—on the back of Steve’s fist, pushing down with all the force he has, until Steve can’t do anything but stop, and then, just then, Tony comes in spurts just as white as the light behind his eyes, as the blinding, body-shattering ecstasy that overtakes him for a moment.

Steve is staring at him.

“Alright,” he breathes out, like the deal is half-done already and he can move on to the next phase of it, but he doesn’t stop fucking into Tony. Tony feels overwhelmed, disoriented; Steve is a foreign body inside him now, too much, but he doesn’t want him to pull out, no, the opposite, he wants him to push in even more, more, more, be one with him, be— 

Steve pulls out.

Tony refuses to let his heart break over it.

“Come here, lemme—” Steve whispers, grabbing Tony’s jaw with his big hand, and bending over him to kiss him, bruising and strong and not quite himself while he licks behind Tony’s ear, below it, and then again into his mouth with the same calibrated violence he displays in battle, a measured cruelty, always a hair away from slipping through his fingers, and it might, now.

Tony’s walls clench around nothing and his mind does the same. He whines, pitifully, bereaved of something that was never his. He swallows down his misery and accepts the shame that claws through him. He whimpers to keep something else at bay, a distilled pain, so pure he might get drunk on it, wish for more.

_This hurts, but don’t stop, sunshine, hurt me more._

He can take anything Steve’ll throw at him and he’ll be right as rain tomorrow morning.

“Shh.” Steve. His hands on Tony’s hips, turning him over. Tony’s face against the padded floor, his come-covered stomach sticking to the plastic, his back to Steve. Steve’s hand is on his ass, squeezing; Tony moans again, he doesn’t know if out of desire or sorrow. “Shh,” Steve says again, to reassure instead of subdue, and pushes back into Tony, harsh and filthy and wonderful. Tony shouts and scratches the floor with his nails, his back snapping into a curve of satisfaction and hunger. It’s all too much.

Steve fucks into him as if he needs to punish himself for something invisible to Tony. He falls on top of Tony, covering his naked back with his chest, his breath damp against Tony’s skin. It makes him shiver again, cutting his breath short while his muscles spasm. 

“St—” he tries to say, but Steve is somewhere else and replies only with a grunt. Tony could be many things right now—scared, sad, terrified, heartbroken, used, lonely, angry, melancholy, patronizing, witty, desperate—so he chooses to be none of them. He’ll let Steve finish, it wouldn't be the first time he waits for an Alpha to be done with him. He’ll let Steve finish; he’ll let Steve knot him while he keeps still and silent like a good Omega, then Steve will leave and Tony will pick up the pieces of himself and all his misconstrued hopes. It’s okay. It’s fine like this. Who would want to be Steve’s Omega anyway? It’d be a nightmare of unmet standards, Tony’s inadequacy dialed up to eleven all day every day. No, thank you.

“I—”

Steve, trying to say something but there must be mud in his brain right now. He fucks like there’s nothing else he cares about.

“I love y—”

Yeah. Yeah, no. _You big, dumb idiot_ , Tony thinks, because he still expected a minimum amount of respect from Steve and instead he gets… this. What is it? Pity? Mockery? Steve gets to play out his little outdated fantasy in his head so he doesn’t feel too bad about wanting to fuck without bonding or some shit, while Tony gets… nothing. Absolutely nothing beyond satisfying his curiosity about what Steve’s knot must feel like, because he still wants that. He still wants Steve; he needs to be honest with himself at least while it’s happening. He wishes things were different, sure, that Steve really loved him, that this led to something that wasn’t just _You okay cleaning that up? Cool. It’s been nice, good night, see you tomorrow at the meeting_ , but, well. It is what it is.

Steve’s thrusts become irregular in a smooth progression. He slams his hips hard against Tony’s ass, fucking him into the mat on the floor, a hand to hold himself up and the other around the back of Tony’s neck, pressing him down, keeping him still. Tony tries to squash down the idea before it’s even born in his mind; he tries to resist the temptation, but he’s always liked to play with fire more than it was advisable, and if Steve gets to play his little game, then Tony is gonna get his fix too, risk be damned. It’s not like this isn’t fucked up beyond belief already, what’s a bit more gonna change? So he tries to get up, propping himself on his elbow and lifting his chest, as though he wants to change position, decide. He’s successful for a single second, then Steve mutters, “Down,” and pushes him back against the floor, harder than before, hand moving to the space between Tony’s shoulder blades. Tony waits until Steve releases him to try again. He lasts more this time, Steve probably so stunned by the challenge that his reflexes are a fraction slower than the first round. Again a hand at the center of Tony’s back, a growled “Enough,” that makes Tony huff out a laugh, then Steve’s hand sliding up again, resting at the nape of Tony’s neck, Steve’s fingers in his hair.

Tony’s eyes sting because the truth of it is that this feels incredible, and he’ll have to do without it from now on. 

Then, it happens. Steve’s scent changes into something different, and there it is, the tell. It begins to hurt. Only a little at first, just a mild burn when Steve fucks back in, but then it grows into a fire, Tony’s rim catching at the swelling knot, Steve’s cock struggling to keep going in and out of him. Flesh fighting flesh.

The knot is swelling. Steve is about to come. No bite.

No bite the first time you have sex with someone means no bond with that person. It’s not like that for everyone, times have changed a bit, but for most people it still works like that, and for sure it does for Steve, no doubt. It’s romantic, in a way. They say that when you find the right mate, you just _know_ , and you bond. There’s even a ritual with vows and handfasting, with no practical use except making the whole deal unnecessarily lyrical. It’s tradition and biology and social constructs all mixed together in a big, inextricable mess.

No bite. Tony has been in this exact situation many times before today. Every time he’s had sex since his first time ever, way too many years ago. He’s one of those shameful Omegas, always used and thrown away, never claimed by anyone. It always sucked, but this one takes the fucking cake, he’s gotta say. But let’s be real, they went out on one date. One. Steve is fucking him after they went out on one— _one_ —date, during which Tony acted disrespectfully, to say the least. Yeah, Steve’s not gonna bite him.

No bite. He already knew so he’s not surprised, not really, but for it to actually happen—or, well, _not_ happen—right now, with _Steve_ , is a whole new level of hurt that he hadn’t considered or imagined. The rejection lodges itself between his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

No bite.

_Just let him finish. Stay still and wait. It’ll be alright._

Steve is going to fuck him, and he’s gonna knot him, and he’s not gonna bite him. He’s not going to claim Tony as his mate, he’s not going to form a bond with him.

_Just let him finish. Keep quiet. Let him finish._

Steve groans, low, “Tony,” and fucks deep inside him and stops there, coming and shuddering violently over him. They’re locked together. He pushes Tony’s head to the side, and—

Teeth on Tony’s shoulder.

Pain, excruciating.

Tony’s mind splits into a million pieces, something deep inside him rips forever, an assortment of all the emotions he’s ever felt and all that he could possibly feel floods him completely. He’s drowning in them, in every emotion, in none of them. They nullify each other.

He is exposed, utterly laid out, all of him, good and bad, successes and failures, shiny desires and embarrassing secrets, his mind scrubbed raw to find every cell that makes him, him, to catalog all the clues that lead to him, Anthony Edward Stark.

And there’s something else. There’s someone else. Steve.

Steve is the most beautiful thing. The sun diving into the sea at sunset, the non-existent sound of the Iron Man armor slashing through the clouds, the void in Tony’s stomach the first time he flew—Steve. Tony runs towards him, meets him in the middle of some kind of inward road that stretches between them, touches the brilliant ghost of Steve’s soul with his own. They intertwine, swirl together. _Bond_.

They explore each other, look and taste and get used to each other. There’s Steve’s sweetness, his kindness and sense of fairness, his pride, his sense of justice, his selflessness. There’s the love he has for his friends—the flowery scent of Thor’s hair, Natasha’s broken smile, Sam’s laugh—and there’s his duty to humanity at large, then his ability to fight, to learn, to improvise and strategize. There’s his past, the puncture of loss, bittersweet memories that he lets Tony see and touch. Red lipstick and wool, a brother with dark hair and blue eyes and a smile that never quite reaches them, a group of friends sharing jokes and a stiff drink between unfamiliar trees, a tired woman with blond hair just like Steve’s. Tony recognizes them. There’s the fear of war, the cold, the darkness. Then, there’s a part of Steve that doesn’t quite respond like everything else. It feels hard and unmoving, and it’s pushing Tony away. He’s confused at the discovery but he doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe it’s the years Steve spent in the ice.

Tony opens himself up to Steve’s scrutiny and it takes so much more trust than what he thought he was capable of. He waits as Steve experiences him, and he catches glimpses of what Steve sees. Strawberry blond hair and deadpan humor, the solid pillar of Rhodey’s friendship, Happy’s warm presence. The loss of his parents, a lonely childhood, the nights spent in front of a screen to build up a long-lost friend. The brilliancy Tony can achieve, the willingness to use it to help people, then his eccentricism, his tendency to misbehave when pushed, his affected bravado. The keyhole through which Tony glances at the future, and the dark, heavy clouds of his past, the acid rains of regret, both public and personal, Obie’s betrayal. Then, Steve reaches the place where Tony keeps what he thinks of himself, his most private worldview, and that’s the only time that Tony shields from Steve—he let him come this far, but no further. Steve pushes at the closed door, doesn’t recoil, just touches it kindly, as though massaging a sore muscle, and Tony’s mind quiets down for a while, a tamed beast.

They remain there, at the center of each other’s minds, Steve enveloping Tony and Tony enveloping Steve, folding and unfolding all over each other. A sense of protection stems from it, and it lulls them into a sleep-like lethargy. There’s nothing else to do except to let things flourish naturally between them. Let it happen.

Tony comes back to himself guided by the sound of his own harsh breathing. His heart is thumping in his chest as if he just ran for an hour, his dick is half-hard. Steve’s teeth are still biting into his skin, but the pain is only a dull memory.

“Steve,” he tries to say. “Steve.”

Slowly, Steve releases Tony’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. He breathes out, once, steadying himself for god knows what. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he’ll drag Tony to a doctor tomorrow morning to undo all this. A mistake. Poor judgment. Got carried away, you know how it is. Sure, I get it, just the heat of the moment.

When he moves, Steve is fast and sure.

He reaches up to rip the velcro keeping the wrap around one of Tony’s hand in place, and begins unwrapping it, the narrow strip of beige fabric unraveling while Steve pulls it in the opposite direction, over and over, as fast as the length of his arm will let him. When he has half of it undone, he wraps his own hand with it in a certain way, does the same for Tony’s, then links their hands together and—

_Oh, Steve._

_Goddammit._

“My blood is your blood. My flesh is your flesh. My mind is your mind. May our bond be never-ending, may our lives be tied forever. There is no beginning and no conclusion. We are together as one in the garden of life.”

The words are whispered, quick and apologetic as if it’s too late to say them. Tony hears them with his ears but they echo in his mind. Steve squeezes his hand through the strip of fabric, and a feeling of suspense takes root into Tony’s heart, of fear and defeat. Tony realizes then that those feelings aren’t his, but Steve’s, and he knows what he has to do. He squeezes Steve’s hand back, and—

“My blood is your blood. My flesh is your flesh. My mind is your mind. May our bond be never-ending, may our lives be tied forever. There is no beginning and no conclusion. We are together as one in the garden of life.”

He turns his head then, Steve moving to accommodate him. Steve’s lips are stained with Tony’s blood.

They kiss, with no need to ask for it. Tony tastes himself on Steve’s red tongue.

The words are eons-old, and saying them makes Tony feel limitless, like he can touch the edges of the universe with the tips of his fingers. He smiles against Steve’s mouth when he feels him coming inside him once again, quietly, body going stiff with it for a moment.

“Um… Sorry, I didn’t even think about—”

“What?”

“You’re not gonna get—”

“Bit too late for that, sunshine.”

“Well, you know how they say. Better late than ever.”

“Yeah, not how it works. But it’s fine. Heat’s still a couple of weeks away. I think. It hasn’t been very regular as of late.”

Silence.

“It wouldn’t be that bad, though, I mean—”

“Steve—”

“I’m just saying, you know, it’d be—”

“Let’s shelve this talk for another time, okay?”

“Okay.”

Silence. Steve comes again.

“You feel weird in my head.”

“Yeah. I feel like there’s more of me. And it’s you.”

“Yeah. What does it feel like for you?”

“Like a beam of light. Like it is for everyone else.”

“No, not what it looks like. What it _feels_ like.”

“I don’t… What does it feel like, for you?”

“It’s… like there’s a road that starts in my head and ends in yours. I can always feel you. You are always there. Like sunshine.”

“Oh, um…” Steve chuckles, sheepish. “You feel like… like a lightning bolt in my head. No, dozens of them. These bursts of energy. Warm. Pulsing.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.”

“You think it’ll change? With time?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? It’d make sense.”

“We’ll see what happens, I guess.”

“We will. Together.”

A beat, Tony turns to look briefly into Steve’s eyes.

“You’re a weird Alpha, Steve Rogers.”

“Maybe, but I’m _your_ weird Alpha, Tony Stark.” He could have said it in a dozen different ways, most of them bad or threatening, but Steve chooses the most harmless one instead, a fond laugh at the background of it.

“You are, though.”

“Your Alpha?”

“Yeah. And I’m your Omega.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You smell different.”

“You too.”

“You like it?”

“Oh, hell, Tony…” He laughs again. “If I weren’t already knotting you, I’d want to fuck you all over again.”

A smirk. “Oh, sunshine, we’re gonna have so much fun together.”

Steve swallows, and it changes the tone of his voice. “We should’ve maybe… talked about it first. It felt right and I went with it but—”

“It’s fine—”

“If you don’t want it—”

“It’s fine. I want it. Believe me, I really do. I didn’t think you were gonna do it, though.”

“Why?”

“No reason. Just—”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s nothing, really—”

“Tony, I can feel what you feel.”

“Yeah, just… Give me a minute, Jesus—”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.”

Silence. Steve kisses his temple, and it’s the most tender thing Tony has ever felt.

“I thought you only wanted to… have fun with me. I don’t know.”

“No, Tony, I—“

“Why would you even want to be with… with me.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

“I’m old. I’m not, well. Pure. I just—”

Steve scoffs. “Tony, I fell in love with you. I could list all the things I like about you, but the gist of it is… just that. I’m in love with you.”

Tony twists on his torso and searches Steve’s face with his eyes. Steve kisses him, and comes again while he does, moaning softly on Tony’s lips. “Me too,” Tony murmurs.

Tony turns away from Steve and his gaze falls on their hands, still bound together with his hand wrap. _Everlast_ , says the label on the strap.

Yeah. He’s too tired to point Steve’s attention to it and make a joke, but Tony’s joy must reach Steve through the bond anyway, if his warm chuckle is anything to go by.

***

Tony looks at the city below him, the penthouse completely dark around him. He’s still wearing the robe Steve gave him in the gym, muttering some excuses about not being able to find Tony’s t-shirt. His pants were a complete loss.

Tony takes a sip of his whiskey. 

His mind wanders back and forth, he can’t keep it still. 

He thinks about the move to the compound, imminent at this point. He’s still convinced it’s the best decision, more practical for the Avengers and safer for the people, but he’s gonna miss the city. He’s gonna miss the penthouse.

He offered to tidy up the gym. Steve, that is. When the knot went down, he got up and cleaned between Tony’s legs with a wet washcloth from the bathroom, put the robe on him and said, “Go on upstairs. I’ll take care of this. Good night. Sleep well.” Yeah. You too.

It all feels unreal.

Steve.

 _Steve_.

There’s a small sound, and Tony instructs FRIDAY to let Steve in the penthouse. He waits for him to walk across the living room, to the windows.

Tony finishes his whiskey.

Steve kisses his head from behind.

“I couldn’t… I thought we could maybe—”

“Yeah,” Tony answers.

Steve pushes Tony’s robe down, uncovering his shoulder. He licks the bitemark, slowly, cleaning the dried blood there, and Tony feels soothed in more than one way.

“Shower. Then bed,” Tony says after a few minutes have passed, but for a long while they just stand there, hugging in silence, looking at Manhattan. The high-rises are dark and shining, an irregular chessboard of lit and unlit windows. 

They stand there, embers in a fireplace, while the city dreams of burning down all around them.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a song by (The) Slowest Runner (in all the World).
> 
> On [Tumblr](https://silkspectred.tumblr.com/post/620289548410306560/like-hares-they-mistook-confidence-for-capacity)  
> On [Twitter](https://twitter.com/silkspectred/status/1269698086793773058)


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